“Figures,” Draven muttered, so quietly that only he could hear it. “The weakling and the Techy.” He stood straight, wiping his hands on his pants. “Let’s get this over with.”
Operation Tilt // one on one // closed
Canary glanced over at him, raising an eyebrow. Her hearing was greater than anyone gave credit for, not that he needed to know that. She motioned to the car idling up next to the curb, before pulling open the door to climb in. "Hurry up, or I'm doin' this without ya."
“But you’d just mess it up, like you do everything else,” he said simply, climbing in. “You need me, Birdie, whether you care to admit it or not.”
"The only thing I need is a churro and a margarita right now." Canary said, not bothering to buckle as she slouched in the seat, crossing her arms to get comfortable.
“Whatever you say,” Draven said with a shrug. “Your loss.” He turned. “Where are we going?”
"Airport. It was in the debrief thingy." Canary said, resting her head on the window. It looked like she had every plan to nap, but she wouldn't actually. Couldn't, not in a moving vehicle, and with Draven there. "Vegas, here I come."
(It’s because he’s so special. No one can relax around him.)
Draven ran his hand through his hair and messed it up, making it stick up slightly. He did that out of habit, when he was thinking. Frowning, he thought about what was to come. How could he possibly be expected to work with the Bird Brain?
((Lmao, that and she can't sleep around anyone she doesn't know super well and/or is incredibly comfortable with. She can't even sleep around Rico. The only person she can sleep around is her friend Lyle, mainly because of the shit they've gone through together.))
Canary pulled an old notebook from her bag, tucking her legs up onto the seat as she flipped through the pages. Glimpses were visible here and there, pages written in various blends of languages like some kind of code, and the occasional photo or item taped in.
(And Draven is used to making people uncomfortable because of his amazing looks and stunning personality-wait… what did I just write?)
Draven ignored her. He fiddled with the blade of a small knife, careful not to hurt himself.
"Cabella's small folding knife, five inch blade." Canary muttered to herself without looking up, seemingly unaware of it. "Good for self-defense in a pinch. Hollow of the throat, eyes, underside of the arm."
Draven ignored her. He twisted the knife ever so slightly, and it was thrown into the back of the seat. With an almost lightning-fast move, he pulled it from the seat and, with another slight move of his fingers, tossed it again.
"Your throw is off." That was the first time she'd actually addressed him, once again without looking up from her journal. "Too much arm. Good, but ya want t' use your wrist more."
“I’m not using my arm, I’m using my fingers,” Draven said coldly. “And why do you care? You can’t even throw one on the target, let alone the right way.”
"You ain't even seen me throw one o' the damn things." Canary said, still casually reading. Nothing ever really seemed to phase her that much, which had been called 'absolutely infuriating' on multiple occasions. "Too much use o' your fingers'll have negative consequences in the future."
“What future?” Draven asked. “I’ll be dead before then.” And he meant it. He hated his life. He felt worthless and awful all the time. He had no real friends, and no one cared about him. They just cared about his appearances. He had planned to die in the next mission, but apparently that wouldn’t be able to happen with Bird Brain around.
"Tha's no way t' look at life." Canary said, finally looking up at him. Her mismatched eyes studied him, oddly calculating, as though she was seeing more than what he was showing. "Take it from someone who does anyway."
He waved his hand dismissively. “Missions, or at least the ones I get, are very dangerous, and I have a ninety four percent chance of dying before sixty.”
She wrinkled her nose, making a face. "Ugh, math. Statistics are a fallback for people without the ability t' control their own fates."
“Who can control their own destiny, though?” Draven asked. “No one. There will always be the slight flaw in the planning that makes everything foexplode in your face.”
"Tha's why you don' plan. It's so much more fun t' do whatever the fuck comes t' mind as it does." Canary said, as though it was obvious. "D'you plan everything?"
“Absolutely,” Draven said sarcastically. “Down to my very breathing. I’m only supposed to take four million breaths a day, unless it’s Tuesday. Then I have to take three million six thousand and four, because that’s when I swim.”
"You're fuckin' with me, an' I know it, but I could see it." Canary mused, looking off out the window as though deep in thought.
Draven smirked slightly, the only expression beyond disgust that he had done that night and stared out the window.
"I don' think I've followed a plan in…three years?" Canary muttered to herself, nose scrunched up in thought. She shook her head, returning to reading.
“Only three? I’d have thought much longer,” Draven said dryly. He tucked his knife away and stared at the floor.
"Off an' on things happened." Canary said, a flicker of something dark crossing her face as she read. "Whatever it takes."
The lines of the song by Imagine Dragons popped into his head, and Draven stifled a growl. He fiddled with the edge of his knife angain, eBaying and not wanting to take it out again. Finally, sighing, he did, and tried throwing it the way she suggested. To his surprise, it worked. Almost too well.
Canary dug around her bag a bit more, pulling out an old looking iPod and a pair of earbuds. She figured she'd bugged Draven enough, and was curious to see what Lyle had added to her playlists lately. She plugged her earbuds in and curled up once more, nodding her head along to a beat as she resumed reading.
Draven glanced over at her out of the corner of his eye as she moved, then away. He pulled his knife out and ran his finger along the blade and frowned when it didn’t break the skin. It was too dull. Pulling a small rock from his pocket, he began to sharpen it, not seeming to notice how bad the noise was.
The sound of the blade being sharpened made Canary pull an earbud out, only to hurriedly put it back in as her jaw clenched. Her foot bounced quickly, much in the same way of a nervous tick, as she tried to shove down the memories threatening to darken her mind. He's just sharpening a knife. Probably to make sure it's ready in an emergency.